


Other Magic

by starry_pseudonym



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Mary Sue, My First Fanfic, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 05:51:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17278280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starry_pseudonym/pseuds/starry_pseudonym
Summary: When an American tourist in London unknowingly steps into the magical world, questions arise as to how protected the wizarding community's secrets really are. Assumptions of purity and the impetus for loyalty to the Dark Lord are tested. Scabior/OFC.





	1. Tourism

**Author's Note:**

> This story - my very first - is compliant up to the start of the Half-Blood Prince. I do not own Harry Potter or any canon references. The story within is purely for entertainment, noncommercial purposes. It's slow to start, I am still learning.

The grey fog thickened throughout the city on the river Thames, a commonplace occurrence for any other day except for the swift, dark, and accumulating ribbons of black clouds that threaded the sky, like inkblots bleeding on parchment. As bewildered onlookers on the streets below took pause, some with shaking teacups in hand, others disrupting traffic and eliciting rude honks, one bystander appeared oblivious.

Focused, though, would have been more accurate – focused on finding a bathroom.

“Excuse me, uh, when’s the next stop?” she called from behind the small congregation that had amassed at the corner of Charing Cross Road. Bouncing on the balls of her flat-bottomed shoes, Renee didn’t bother hiding her physical urgency while the rest of the tour group milled about in wait of their tour guide’s next historical anecdote.

“And here we have Leadenhall Market,” the uniformed man with a bowler hat and an unironic handle-bar mustache pointed upward, “a lovely example of London’s well-maintained Victorian architecture. See how the arcs in the ornate painted roof … bloody,” his jaw slackened mid-sentence as his pointed finger swayed from the building’s eaves to the swirling tails of darkness above. The rest of the group, like lemmings upon a cliff, followed his finger and gasped, all interest of the “West End Wonders” tour forgotten.

But not Renee. “No, but seriously, when can we stop? I need to use the bathroom.” She waited, then shouted louder, “I mean the loo. Sorry, the toilets?”

Already keenly aware of her foreigner status in this predominantly Eastern-European group and how uncultured her ordinary American accent must sound when raised and enunciated, Renee didn’t try a third time. She was traveling by herself – a wish-fulfilling treat on the eve of her thirtieth birthday – and the last thing she wanted was a memory of how she lived out the “ugly American” nightmare of her own self-importance.

“Eh, fuck it,” but she still needed to pee, and so after murmuring her resignation, she quite literally bowed out of the crowd in search of the nearest public restroom.

The tour was a last-minute addition to her itinerary anyway, a substitute to the Tower of London that had suddenly closed to the public, and being as cheap as this tour was, she didn’t feel bad if by the time she returned they had moved on to the next landmark. Given how they were all clustered in silence and staring at the sky last she looked over her shoulder, there was doubt this little detour would separate her from the pack.

“You’d think being from Chernobyl you’d have seen a cloud or two before,” her sarcastic remark fell under her breath just as her shoulder purposefully knocked into the heavy, seemingly weighted door of the pub she spotted earlier. A crack of lightning and a rumble of thunder preceded her entry into the Leaky Cauldron.

“This looks … themed,” was her first soft-spoken observation, continuing to modulate her volume so as not to draw attention, but equally concerned that those in seemingly Victorian costume might pull her into some scripted performance if noticed. But it all made sense: the antiquated alley shoppes, the tour guide who fell out of a scene from _The Age of Innocence_ , and now this.

She smiled. At least this was living up to expectation. For the last five years, Renee had been toiling away at a desk job, finding only sparse moments of joy when opportunities for creativity arose in her department. “A truly strategic initiative,” was how her boss dressed it up, and for those weeks, her sense of purpose heightened. But then the project would end, and going home to her empty house fell back into the routine of wake, feed her cat, commute, work, go home, and watch Seinfeld with a microwaved dinner situated in her lap.

The 90s were turning into one endless string of disappointments. Not necessarily a plain girl – of average height and athleticism, fair skin, blue eyes, and dark blonde hair several inches past her shoulders – Renee had enough going for her _physically_ that she knew her slump was self-imposed. Nearly thirty years old and she had two failed relationships and one over-weight fur-child to show for it. Of course, this was all in her head. If she didn’t live in her thoughts so much, she’d have realized that a college degree, a job, and a life entirely within her control was nothing to scoff at.

But living in the moment was not a strong suit – hence her last minute, ill-advised-from-her-parents trip to England! That shortcoming was evident as she approached the bar, hoping to pull the focus of the unhurried bartender away from the other curiously-clothed patrons. The pub was dark for being the middle of a summer day (she forgot about the clouds), with flickering candles offering little help in making out features, especially those that turned lazily her way when she cleared her throat, interrupting the laughter between the two men familiar with one another. At least in the gloom they couldn’t see how she stuck out in fitted jeans, a heathered grey camisole, and a dark olive draped voile jacket.

“Hi, sorry, where’s your bathroom?” she leaned over the bar top with fingers splayed and white-knuckled on the ledge, as if to say _this is an emergency._

Just as the bartender’s grumble began, the wooden planks of the front door exploded into hundreds of jagged, splintered shards.

She dropped hard to her knees and ducked with her arms cradling her head; the pain of the fall didn’t compare to the razor-sharp pang of adrenaline slicing up her veins. A moment later, a second explosion hit, though her senses must have tricked her into thinking the sound of blasted bricks on the far side of the pub was the origin.

She felt paralyzed as all around her screams and yells erupted, the suffocating cloud of dust and debris spreading like poison in the air. Shadowed shapes swarmed all around her, some fading farther away, others wavering in and out of discernible view.

What felt like an hour was only seconds of disorientation before she could make any sense of what happened. Were they under attack? By whom and why? Had a car bomb gone off? She read about the IRA incidents in Manchester, probably why her parents were so against her travel plans, but why here of all places? Why anywhere.

She knew she had to run. There was no telling what was to befall after the smoke of the explosions finally cleared. Strange what runs through a person’s mind when their literal next steps could mean life or death. _I still have my purse with me_ , her hand reached for the small, black leather cross-body she clung to her side, _so if they find me at least I’ll have identification._

With that small measure of relief giving her enough hope to take in a deep breath, Renee stepped around the fallen bar stool that obstructed her path and headed for what looked to be where everyone else was escaping. The wall opposite the door appeared to have been smashed wide open, as if whatever (or whomever) destroyed the door had kept barreling through like a freight train.

“Definitely not a bomb,” she whispered, what color still in her cheeks now draining in dread. Her next thought took her to the people outside – her tour group – left on the sidewalk not more than a few paces from the pub. _Oh god_. She spun around, letting go of her purse in anticipation of pushing her way through, when instead she collided with an unmoving force that, amidst her surprised gasp, _snatched_ her upper arm.

“Going somewhere, love?”


	2. Terrorism

Renee seized where she stood, stricken by fear of being suddenly grasped tight by the arm. At first her thoughts went to the presumed terrorists behind the attack and so it was by instinct that she yanked backward – only to be denied with another powerful squeeze.

“Let go, asshole!” she barked. It wasn’t until she heard her demanding voice resonate through the pub’s chamber that she realized everyone else was gone. Nothing from the street – it was as if all pedestrians had vanished. And for those who managed to flee through the shattered wall on the other side, those calls were growing more distant, as if in chase.

Another jerk of her arm forward landed her against the one relentless in his grip. “With a mouth like that,” his English draw, mired in day’s old whiskey, fell heated upon her cheek. His other hand, until now unseen, raised a slender, wooden stick to tip gently beneath her chin, causing her widening eyes to finally rise to meet his.

“I’m tempted to overlook…,” his hooded stare, lined in smudged kohl, traveled down the length of her front, no doubt in her mind to make her more nervous and thus susceptible to stupidity, but instead of continuing with his thought, he halted. Brows furrowed, and for a moment Renee prayed he had just discovered his true mark – maybe an artifact on the floor, maybe another person behind her, a political target that had been weaseling away while she served as decoy.

“What’s this?” the twig that had been poised along her jaw fell to point at her purse. The tip of the twig ignited with pale white light – causing Renee to flinch in his unyielding clutches, both surprised and confused by what was happening. It illuminated what had become partially dislodged and sticking out of the leather bag resting upon her right hip: a clunky, early-model Nokia mobile phone.

The light extinguished, and just as quickly he pulled her forward, hauling her along towards the collapsed wall and clearing thereafter.

“Seriously, who the hell do you think you are?” she accused as she tried to twist her arm out of his hold, which served to only provoke him to yank her harder.

“Name’s Scabior, and if’n you please, I suggest shuttin’ it,” he growled out between clenched teeth.

Renee quieted. Something about his last words was not aligned with who she thought she was dealing with. His peculiar name, surname she presumed, aside, his restrained tone sounded nearly in secret, as if he was instructing her to keep her mouth shut for the sake of her own good.

Her problem with not living in the moment was at this point resolved. She didn’t have a choice. Fortunately for the both of them, her stubbornness was limited to not wanting to get out of bed in the morning. In moments like this, she knew to comply, and even hurried a step so that he no longer had to pull her after him.

This visibly startled him. It wasn’t typical in his line of work for his prey to obey, though by the looks of it she had no idea that’s what she was. Seeing what he saw in that bag, he was certain that she was about to be on an exclusive and unfortunate list of said prey, a list being drawn up by the likes of his soon-to-be employers.

“Here,” he shoved her into a cobbled alcove, wet with recent rain and obscured by barrels of assorted broomsticks. She stumbled, but steadied her hand against the stone wall, leveraged to peer around the corner at what he was leaving her for. _And this is your chance to run,_ but where? Back the way she came, there was no certainty there weren’t more of his ilk gathering inside. Before her, Scabior was approaching two black-hooded figures that emerged from a shattered, fiery storefront, then a third hauling what appeared to be a bound and bagged hostage out by his collar.

“Go ‘n, I’ll catch up with you lot later,” he addressed the one holding onto who she assumed to be the shopkeeper. She couldn’t make out the features of that third man with Scabior blocking her vantage, but he was hauntingly tall and brutish.

That’s when it happened. In a swirl of billowy black smoke, the four men evaporated and soared from the street, their murky streaks careening through the air high above the city and off out of sight.

Renee straightened, then fumbled backwards into the other side of the recessed building wall. “What the fuck,” she blurted. Scabior, having turned back around to hopefully see his catch still obeying, sighed, looking visibly defeated.

“As I suspected,” he shook his head. “Wasn’t sure until now.” He slogged back towards her, though in her awe she wasn’t so willing to stay put, and began sliding out of the alcove to retreat from him. He wasn’t all that concerned.

“Ever seen one o’ these, love?” He lifted the stick he had used to poke at her chin earlier. She didn’t utter a word, but by the looks of her wary glare – a welcomed change from the fear he was so used to – the answer was no.

“It’s a wand. And guessing you have no idea where you are,” his words flirted on the edge between mirth and menacing. His arms widened, gesturing to the slightly warped-in-time cobblestone alley in which she now found herself. She didn’t react, no cause for conceding to what he wanted any longer, but instead took another step backward, nearly to the small mountain of bricks that had once been the entrance point to …

“Diagon Alley, but a place like this, nah, you wouldn’t know,” he stepped closer, knowing that her next motion to withdraw wouldn’t be so steady, “not a muggle like yourself.”

The word didn’t register; he didn’t expect it would. But the way this woman remained steadfast, as calculated in her next move as he was in his, he was intrigued.

Scabior hadn’t been out of Azkaban for long, but long enough to have landed himself on a crew that would find itself in good favor with the new regime. He had heard rumors that infiltration of the Ministry was imminent, and that their work would thus soon begin. These “odd jobs” capturing certain individuals – Ollivander now being scratched off the list – was a good way to make a few galleons before the real work commenced.

So it was of conflict to now stand before a muggle – not a muggleborn witch, not even a muggle accompanied by someone of magic – but a muggle who had found her way accidentally, through wards, charms, protection spells, and a thousand years of presumed undetectable isolation, into the magical world.

“What to do,” he mused rhetorically when it seemed they were at an impasse. The easiest route would be to obliviate this innocent passerby, but it stood to reason that if she could discover this treasured, millenia-old secret of their existence, then others could too. He wasn’t worried by that possibility in so much as he wondered how much knowledge of it was worth.

And she was the perfect piece of evidence to this newfound conundrum.

“Seeing as I’ve no where right to be just now,” said as he knew his words would jumpstart her thinking – he sussed out she was marginally intelligent, for a muggle. “I think I’d like to get to know you better, love.”

Renee carefully took another step, now onto the precarious façade of the brick heap behind her, then in a feigned jerk to the right, launched off towards the left where she reached for one of the broomsticks in the wood-planked barrel.

Scabior was momentarily fooled, and impressed, but when he turned around to find the bushy end of an old Shooting Star riding broom poised to hit him in the face, he huffed and angled out of the way of her side-sweep.

“Careful now, you might actually _do something_ ,” he warned, the right edge of his lips tugging into a looming grin as his stubble-lined jaw squared slightly forward in wait. His hands raised in faux surrender, though he still wielded his wand, pinched to his right palm by his thumb.

Renee had already gone through the customary laundry list of explanations: concussion-induced hysteria and delusion, a Shakespearean performance gone off the rails (and yet with unheard of production value), or she was in fact knocked out on the floor and this was not currently transpiring at all.

Holding firm the broom between them, a makeshift if not practical weapon to keep him at bay for at least a few seconds, Renee could feel the thrumming in her throat start to dissipate. All the adrenaline-pumping excitement of the last fifteen minutes was starting to disperse, which allowed for two thoughts to surface: one new, one ignored.

He was oddly attractive, and she still had to pee.


	3. Empiricism

“Is it true muggles are flatulant as a way to stay warm?” he asked from the other side of the bathroom door. He was leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed and one booted foot hooked over the other. It was his third muggle-related question in as many minutes, and understandably this latest one finally warranted a stir from the other side.

Renee threw open the door, just shy of causing him to fall, and glared angrily at her would-be captor. He smiled, “Done, then?” He pulled her forward by the curve of her shoulder and led her out of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour and back into the alleyway.

True it was that Scabior knew next to nothing about muggles – just that they were inferior, in general of lesser intellect, and considered a different species altogether. So while his questions were juvenile, they originated from genuine curiosity.

Renee, at last relieved from her immediate urgency, was less than amused, and hadn’t said more than a word to him since they agreed it was mutually beneficial to give up the broom and do as he said. It took more than some pleasantries, though, to get to where they were.

“Was that a spell you did back there?” she finally spoke up amidst his continued, forced direction down the uneven path. It felt like forever since the silence had become conspicuously unbreachable.

But nothing could have been as awkward as when just a few minutes ago he lowered his raised hands to dispense an incarcerous spell at her, the broom in her clutches dropping, and in the same fluid maneuver landing her bound and defenseless in his arms.

In her awe, both of feeling the tightening invisible ropes around her and his instinct to catch her, she had taken in for the first time the landscape of who he was, so close and inescapable that it was hard not to look.

He was weathered – a few years older, but impossibly more worldly than she was. Whatever life had dealt him, it seemed to have left a stain on his incessant scowl, and yet his swift acts were contrary, more in line with a man who cared too deeply despite his circumstances. The rugged, rock star countenance did little to set her imagination at ease as to the kind of man he was, and while that danger was at best a fleeting thrill for a woman like her, if he was lucky this would be an international incident the American Embassy was surely already on top of.

“Best to shut it again, no?” he nodded when he noticed she was looking at him, to spark her quick agreement but also to gesture her attention forward to where they were heading: down jagged steps of a place branded by sign as Knockturn Alley.

Her study of the last few minutes ceased when the dark, dank murkiness of the narrow corridor swallowed them. Though he had his fingers wrapped around her elbow to keep her from running, it did nothing to steady her when out from around the corner a cloaked figure emerged. Whoever it was, he seemed to know Scabior, for there was a muted exchange of looks, followed by the stranger’s gutteral snort in her direction.

Scabior’s fingers tightened, his dirt-crusted nails digging into her arm. “Selwyn,” he acknowledged. The subsequent linger of the man as he stepped passed them felt encroaching.

“Be done with her quickly, He is expecting us,” said close enough for her to wince as the stench of an unrecognizable coldness permeated the air. That seemed to placate the man, knowing she was afraid, and so he continued down the passageway.

A few moments passed in stillness, and when she was sure they were alone – though how sure of anything could she be anymore? – she rounded on him, the pain of him trying to hold her down ignored.

“What the hell is going on?” she harshly whispered. It was a question posed to a man she for some inexplicable reason trusted enough to not kill her for demanding answers. She desired the opportunity for an interrogation, his or hers, where they could both explain themselves. But “being done with quickly” aroused in her an unsettling thought or two that needed to be tempered by his forthright response.

He just looked at her. The original plan of holing her up in his run-down flat until he could make some inquiries was the best he had, but the time table was quickly shrinking.

“Sorry love, we won’t have time for chit chat tonight,” and without warning, his arm snaked around her waist and pulled her against him, inciting a breathy gasp that, under different circumstances, he would have teased her about. Instead, with a subdued grin, he disapparated, she side-long with him.

What would have been another fifteen minutes’ walk had been condensed into a pop within space and a rush of air returning to her lungs. Anticipating the discomfort his nonmagical marvel would be feeling, he lessened his hold on her and guided her backward into the room they now found themselves in. With one hand still wrapped around her, the other reached for and tugged forward on the strap that led to his spring-loaded murphy bed. He was careful to guide her back with him as he lowered the contraption to the floor. Only then did he finally release her, and let her own distress lead her down onto the mattress.

“Lovely, well, as tempting as …,” he couldn’t bring himself to strike up an innuendo-laden remark, and this bothered him. He didn’t have much time – the others were expecting him – and with the sun no longer visible through the grime-smudged window, he had to hastily make the best of this unforeseen predicament.

“No sense in trying to escape, the whole flat is warded,” he paused. She was looking up at him, and by the clarity in her stalwart stare the nausea had already passed, or nearly so. “Which means you are magically held here until I say differently, understand?”

Enough folklore and popular culture had prepared Renee for the foundation of what she was now faced with. She took a deep breath then nodded.

“Can’t say there is food in the fridge, but uh, I’ll be back as soon as I can.” For some reason he felt the need to add that reassurance, as if in not doing so he was appearing to be a rude kidnapper, and that somehow mattered. He’d need to get this behavior out of his system before his real snatching job began.

And so it was by design that before she could speak, he disapparated once again, leaving her to glance around at the poorly-lit, scarcely furnished, filthy one-room apartment.

“Fuck.”


	4. Introspectionism

It was nearly dark outside and there was no telling when this Scabior person would return – later that night or just before dawn, it was all added to the tome-sized speculation swarming in her mind. In the first five minutes of her being in his presumed home, Renee had checked out the small kitchenette area – a gas stove, mid-century icebox, and a few mismatched plates and utensils likely scrounged together from a thrift store. _Nothing personal._

The same was deduced from the rest of his belongings. Enough clothes for a few days were thrown in piles on an old leather chair. The only real evidence of his use of this place existed in the half-empty bottle of, “Firewhiskey?” she uttered as she lifted the glass and read the faded label.

There was no television, no microwave; the only artifact of modern times appeared to be the shotty electricity pulsing through the solitary floor lamp in the corner.

She wasn’t doing much better in that regard. As soon as he disappeared she had checked her Nokia, thinking albeit naively that she could call someone for help. Even if there was somehow cellular service, her 90s era mobile device held a few hours of battery at best, and those hours were long gone.

Renee prided herself on her creative nature, it was what gave her pockets of enjoyment at work, but in situations like this, her primordial brain switched on for the sake of survival, and it was nothing but analysis of options from here on out.

_I am being held hostage, couldn’t tell you why, or by whom, or where I am. What I do know is my flight back to Dulles leaves in two days. I either make it back in time, or if I don’t then my parents will know I was involved in the attack in the west end today, or something happened to me, and they will contact the government._

Problem solved. She could either find a way out, or let the authorities handle her rescue. Either option landed her safely home, with the potential for personal calls from President Bill Clinton and Prime Minister Tony Blair.

The timeline of her salvation now rationalized, Renee returned to the bed and slowly sat back down. All the scenarios she could ponder to keep her troubled mind busy could not keep out that one burning question still left unanswered.

 _What the hell is going on?_ All things considered, if the simplest explanation was the most likely, then she was on the verge of discovering something world-changing. If magic actually existed, what were the implications of telling the rest of humanity? Governments would vie for dominance in the first year, then regulation shortly after. Seeing as this man she encountered could disappear and reappear with a flick of his wrist, there was no telling what that would mean for immigration policy. And what about counter-intelligence agencies? What was the true extent of this magic – could it cure disease, solve the world hunger crisis, eliminate poverty, or topple the fragile pillars of society as she knew it? Was magic contained to just England or how many more magic-users were there?

Scabior didn’t seem the sort to have answers to any of these questions, or if he did, he’d be less than forthcoming. Even if she asked, she’d be painting a target on her back for even caring about what was to happen if she told the public at large. _Best not even let him know I thought about any of this._

But that was the trouble, wasn’t it? The only person she could talk to about this _was him_. A stranger who in five seconds of looking at her had taken her against her will. Though, again she regretted, she was too much in shock to put up much of a struggle. She was still convinced he brought her along in part because of her own safety.

_Stupidest … how dumb can you be?_

She didn’t want to be caught off guard again. By his spells, by his … what? _You are hard up if you are thinking any of this is charming._ It would be best to see this in black and white and keep it that way: she was abducted, and he was the abductor.

Maybe I can offer him cash. She had fifty-four dollars in her bag, and another twenty already converted into pounds. With a tired groan, Renee fell back onto the mattress to stare at the disintegrating, water-logged yellow and brown paint on the ceiling. She was resolved not to fall asleep, there was no assurance that his return would be soon or by himself, and she wanted to be alert. She kept her flat, slip-on shoes on despite the ache from that day’s cobbled adventure, and laced her fingers together atop her stomach in silent, bored wait. It felt like Christmas morning before daybreak and she had caught Santa Claus as he was about to climb back into the fireplace, but he hushed her to secrecy.

 _I won’t tell_ , was her last innocent thought as she succumbed to sleep, head rolling to the side as the weight of the day's discoveries fell heavy on her surrendering eyes.


	5. Malism

Night cast an ominous shroud of storm-grey green on the meticulously pruned landscape of Malfoy Manor. Inside, there wasn’t much more light to be shed, in the chambers Scabior now found himself, or from the conversation at hand.

“Well done,” hissed the dark-haired witch with crazed eyes from across the expanse of the mahogany dining table. She was leaning over it, no doubt in Scabior’s mind to assert her authority in the absence of the one who summoned them. The flickering candles lining the damask-wrapped walls brightened nary a kind feature on the woman’s obscured-by-curls face.

The man seated beside Scabior released an amused growl from behind his sharp-toothed smirk. Scabior was convinced that was as much vocal variety as Greyback could muster, his primitive disposition conveying as much coherence as a drooling infant.

Just as Scabior was readying to speak – a nice _thank you where’s our money_ was in order – his mouth falling open with a finger raised, she continued.

“The Dark Lord wishes for another task to be done.”

 _Vague as always_ , but He was the only one hiring these days. Scabior leaned back, that pointed finger easing into a little dig with his thumb in thought.

Bellatrix could sense his skepticism (it was one of his defining traits), a twitch in her nose the result of her growing ire.

“And only upon its completion,” she spat, “will you receive your due compensation for this latest deed.” Seeing both men attempt to constrain their anger was a blissful sight, and she smiled deviously as she straightened her stance.

“Then we are in agreement. Greyback, meet Lady Malfoy,” the bizarre formality of her sister’s title was not lost to Scabior, “at Borgin and Burke tomorrow at sundown. She and the young master will need an escort.” The notoriously cruel witch turned her attention to him, and whatever unhinged thoughts were swirling about her head seemed to drip in spades from her wide smile.

It was the three of them in the great hall of the Malfoy Manor, but even with the inordinate amount of space between them Bellatrix had a way of stifling the air in any room. Scabior knew there were others in wait outside the closed double doors, true Death Eaters who had earned their rank for more devious and deadly duties than he had amassed in his short time of employment.

He was just here for the score – a smuggler in a previous life, with a penchant for thievery, gambling, and the occasional snatch-and-grab. It wasn’t the most lucrative of professions, but his life was his own, or so it had been. A job gone awry had landed him in Azkaban, and thus on the radar of the accruing army congregating just outside in the foyer. To them, criminals were the lifeblood to what their cause required – no scruples to evading the law, with the occasional viciousness.

The difference was, they reveled in it. He saw it – the violence, the torture, the death – as a necessary (and sometimes unnecessary) means to an end. His pure lineage allowed him a place at this table, but that was the extent of it up to now. The longer he stayed at that table, in the company of the likes of Bellatrix Lestrange, the easier it was becoming to see himself amidst the punishing rank and file.

“For you, dear Scabior, an opportunity.”

Bellatrix seized her wand and flew Greyback out of the room with the door slamming shut behind him. It was a split-second, but plenty of time for her to pique his intrigue she was sure, now that they were alone.

“When the Ministry falls,” as they both knew those plans were set in motion well before the Dark Lord’s return, “we will need someone to bring in the … less than desirable. We can’t have mudbloods and blood traitors in the new world the Dark Lord is building, can we?”

While his mind should have been on what sounded as a promotion and the monetary benefits likely to be associated, mention of such a role had him picturing the girl imprisoned at his flat.

And what of her? She was neither mudblood nor blood traitor – she was straight up muggle. And where did they fall within the new world order? A day ago he’d have viewed her kind no differently than a pack mule, good for labor but hardly civilized or clever enough to be considered a wizard’s equal.

His mind wasn’t exactly changed on that perception, but she – he never got her name, because why would he – posed a crack in the foundation of their assumed superiority. She had found them, and that did not align with the narrative.

“Can we?” she seethed, her thin, deceptively cruel hands slammed onto the table; clearly his lack of response was not what she expected.

He straightened, though it was next to impossible for him not to somehow lean on something, this time the arm of the chair.

“No, we can’t,” he rejoined. “So then, you’ll be needin’ us to what, snatch ‘em up? Bring ‘em to you for questioning, and …”

The and was understood. What purpose did a mudblood serve other than servitude to their betters? Scabior could tell from the witch’s broadening, ugly smile that she was looking forward to the and.

“Gather your men, and when the Minister of Magic is dead, we’ll have our reckoning.”

His smile was nearly imperceptible; he was waiting for what he wanted to hear.

“And you will have a payment waiting for you in Gringott’s as high as a pile of horned tail shite,” she pledged with a sordid lick of her rotted incisors.

“Great,” he jumped up from his chair. “Fifty galleons a snatch, the higher the profile, the higher the price, and we don’t even need to shake on it,” he smirked. Negotiation was his territory, he was suited for the razzle-dazzle such quick exchanges obliged. Impersonal, and he got what he wanted – always.

“We’ll be in touch,” Bellatrix slinked down into her chair finally, and then with a wave of her hand, the doors to the antechamber opened. The milling-about men turned as Scabior wasted no time in departing the demented witch’s presence, shuffling past their uniformly cloaked forms so that he could head out past the perimeter wards.

He felt dirtier than usual as he kicked at the polished-stone path that led to the wrought-iron gate. Doing business with Death Eaters was not where he would have seen himself five years ago, but prison and desperate times had a way of changing a man.

The hole he was digging for himself had grown exponentially deeper tonight. He was in the Dark Lord’s employ for the long haul now. If the payout proved to be as profitable as that sick bitch promised, though, then it would be worth it. His pockets had holes in them, what with the insurmountable debt still suspended over his head, but there was an actual chance of sewing those rips closed at the end of this.

Now outside the gate, he remembered the snag to his plan. He was no closer to figuring out what to do when he returned to his flat in London. A new plan was forming though, and in the instant he apparated back, he tossed another incarcerous spell at his bed where he left her hours earlier.


	6. Rationalism

While in the wafting realm between consciousness and slumber, Renee was yanked violently from one end to the other by an undetectable tether. Her eyes flashed open just as Scabior pulled on the invisible rope tightening around her prone body.

“Time to get up, love,” he reached for her right arm, indisputably bruised by the number of times he had gripped it since meeting her. “And answer some questions,” he tossed her unceremoniously onto the leather chair, his array of clothes offering little in the way of added cushion when she landed.

Renee, unsettled from sleep, managed to brace herself upon collision with the chair, but with her arms pinned to her sides, and more unseen ropes winding their way around her ankles, there was little opportunity for her to fight him.

But that didn’t stop her from cursing in surprise. “What in the _actual_ fuck?”

Scabior was in the midst of a practiced pacing at the foot of his bed when in his next pivot he ceased. It had been some time since last he personally abducted someone, not since before his stint in Azkaban, but he was rather certain in his recollection of those times that the abducted were more terrified than this usually.

Now that he had a chance to think and not have the meeting at the manor dictating his quick decisions from earlier, he was coming to the conclusion that this muggle was not fitting neatly into his prejudices.

“From the mouth on you, you aren’t from around here,” remarked as he lowered onto the edge of the mattress, the corner supporting his weight as his plaid-panted legs spread in care of his reposing forearms.

“So what brings you to this side of the pond, darling?”

Renee was registering that disconcerting feeling again – and this time it wasn’t from her bladder. Like the majority of American women in the 1990s, she was enamored with the concept of British gallantry, but the events of the last five or six hours were swiftly diminishing her belief in old-world romanticism. The stinging cut of the magical ropes binding her in place was an intense reminder that her prejudices were just as much in trouble.

“I don’t think my reason for being in England is what you really want to know,” she huffed.

Scabior blinked. A clever parry was not high up on his list of predictable retorts from this woman. He leaned closer, dropping his weight to one lain arm.

“Quite right, love. I’m much more interested in how you found yourself in the Leaky Cauldron of all places this afternoon. You couldn’t have come alone now, could ya?” If she was with someone else, that would have solved the mystery – accompaniment from a witch or wizard, such as when muggleborn students needed the guardianship of their non-magic parents.

Renee studied his face for a moment. Answering him truthfully presented an issue – he’d know no one was likely looking for her if she was alone. But lying and saying she was with others didn’t help her get to the bottom of this any faster either. They were after the same truth.

Gulping quietly, she offered a slight nod. “I did, I was looking for the bathroom. Which,” and here she was putting her primal survival tactics to use, “I didn’t thank you for earlier, at the ice cream shop. I appreciate that.”

Bargaining on good behavior was shrewd, but this wasn’t his first interrogation. He inched closer to the edge of the mattress, and even though that still kept them a measurable two feet from one another, that small advance caused her eyes to drop down to the hand loosely wielding his wand at her.

“I gathered muggle anatomy isn’t much different,” he took this opportunity to share in the same awareness of their proximity, but whereas her instinct went to his weapon, his went to her. She looked no different than an average witch – even the way her chin raised in nigh aristocratic pride at times reminded him of pureblood girls he went to school with years ago.

“You keep saying that word,” her impatient tone broke him out of his reverie.

“Means you don’t know magic from manure. You come from the other side, love. And I’d like to know how you managed to step on over to where you don’t belong.” He knew she was as ignorant to how as he was – for all her apparent astuteness, she couldn’t know the intricacies of their segregation. There was no getting around the fact that this happened by mistake.

There must have been something faulty with the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. _Perhaps when we broke down the door, the wards were severed._ But then he remembered she was already inside by the time he, Greyback, and their two Death Eater associates crashed through. And of course, once she was in his company, it was like free entry to the waterpark.

“Beats the shit out of me.” He was growing used to her candid vulgarity, and in a sense found it offputtingly heartening that they essentially spoke the same language.

“What I do know, is that people will be looking for me, the American government, and they don’t take kindly to terrorists who kidnap their citizens. If you let me go now, I won’t say anything.”

To this he laughed. “You think,” he hummed in amusement while sliding from the edge and lowering to his knee before her, enough to the side to enable his wand access to her chin again. “that this American government of yours, is going to find a rat-infested hovel like this, and save you? When you yourself can’t even get out? How they gettin’ in, love?”

No doubt as his eyes widened in guesswork that hers were doing so for the same reason. _If she could find the pub, why couldn’t they find the rest of the wizarding world? And what of the Dark Lord’s master design then?_ Scabior doubted there was an exit strategy if the muggle sovereignties of the world decided to tamper with His overthrow.

Renee didn’t need the spell to hold her in stillness just then: _If I could enter the pub, what’s keeping me from leaving his apartment?_ She, like a gullible idiot, hadn’t checked the door when he disappeared earlier.

Some magic still worked on her, as verified by her inability to move. So when the wand pointing at her slithered down the length of her throat, the notion that she was nearly scot-free took a backseat.

“Seems to me,” his voice lowered, and for a brief moment he took pleasure in how she held her breath when he neared her. That sort of intimidation came as second nature to him, but even still, there was a pronounced relish when this muggle reacted as he desired. He rose from his knee so that he could express to her exactly what was on his mind in the nearness of his lean and the tender prod of his wand against her pulse. “I can’t be lettin’ you go just yet.”


	7. Globalism

She stared down at her uneaten stale piece of toast, slathered in undercooked beans in red sauce, and sighed. Two mornings of this was her limit – if the man keeping her under house arrest didn’t drive her mad, the banality of English breakfast would.

“So much for getting home,” she exhaled and let the hardened bread drop back onto the chipped plate, giving rise to her attention elsewhere. It was morning, and for the first time in what felt like ages the sun was shining. “Probably the predicament in the West Country,” she said to no one, though no less proud of herself for piecing things together.

The last two days Renee had been alone in Scabior’s flat. She had tested the locks the moment she was left to herself, but either her theory was incorrect, or there were other types of wards in play, those that not even magical people could thwart. Biding her time was her only other choice, and by six o’clock local time today her parents would be fully aware of her missed flight and lack of phoned communication. That meant that by this time tomorrow a manhunt would be underway, her face plastered on every television in the country. That’s how it worked, right?

But her time wasn’t wasted. Though there were no books in his apartment, a pile of newspapers in the corner revealed a wealth of information. She knelt down and spread them out on the floor like a puzzle to be solved. After getting over the discovery of animated photographs on the printed paper, Renee scoured every article for details that would help her understand what was going on.

 _Murder of Amelia Bones._ She vaguely recalled reading about it in the Guardian one morning at a market café, not long after she arrived in the country. _Bridge Collapse: Death Toll Rises._ She skimmed down the columns. Gathering the front page in both hands, she raised it to the streaming sunlight over her shoulder. She read aloud the headline:

“You-Know-Who’s attacks threaten to uncover wizard world.”

Smack. She nearly leapt out of her skin at the sudden whack of the wand tearing at the newspaper. She let it go before it could rip and glared upward from her knelt disadvantage to the elusive man grinning down at her.

“Understatement of the century, love.”

\-----------------------------------

Later that day, approaching early evening, the Prime Minister sat stiffly at his executive desk, phone in hand and ear pressed in consternation. “Mr. President, I agree, this is a terrible situation. I will have my top men looking into the disappearance of Ms. Hayes. It’s understandable, given the last week … yes, of course. Please extend my sympathies to … very well.”

As if the disasters spreading across the countryside weren’t enough, he now had the President of the United States to contend with in priority. He set the phone down and dropped his forehead into his outstretched palm.

About to reach for a glass with his free hand, he paused at the sound of another cough from the painting above his office door. “What is it this time?” he groaned.

“To the Prime Minister of Muggles, urgent request. Respond immediately, kindly yours, Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic.” Hadn’t he already met the man a few days ago?

“Get on with it then!” he blasted impatiently.

The spinning swirl of emerald smoke deposited Cornelius Fudge onto the rug. “Oh,” the Prime Minister straightened in his chair, “It’s you. What-what happened to the other … the Minister?”

Fudge was not carrying his lime-green bowler hat. It seemed in the short time since his last visit he realized it was no longer necessary or important for him to have it cradled against his pinstriped side. “He’s very busy as you know.” The aging wizard dumped himself into the chair opposite the muggle leader, “Oh good, if you’re pouring,” he motioned to the whiskey on the desk.

The Prime Minister sighed, but rather than argue he poured them each a glass, then sat back with his. “Very well, what’s the issue this time? Is He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named dead yet?”

Fudge’s jaw tightened but acquiesced in favor of a long sip. He was jovial in demeanor most always, even in the face of uncontested, horrific reality. The time for his blundering recounts of his world’s intersections with the Prime Minister’s was over. “We’ve been exposed.”

The Prime Minister choked on his drink. “Wait-what? How? I thought that wasn’t possible?”

“Oh well, we’re on the verge of being exposed,” Fudge revised, ignorant to the frustration now fully spread across the muggle’s face.

“The Muggle Liaison Office is sorely understaffed with all the mayhem his followers are causing these days. We’ve been able to perform memory modifications on everyone so far, but truthfully, it’s become a mess.”

The Prime Minister loudly returned his whiskey glass to the desk and leaned forward. “So hire more people? Isn’t this paramount to the stability of our two societies?” Up until now, he had felt quite uninformed, deliberately so, about this other world, which put him in the passenger seat of every conversation with this man in front of him. But after his last phone call, the events of this week, and this latest turn in news, he could no longer tolerate this subordinate position.

“I require you to get your Ministry under control, Fudge, and quickly. If my people learn about what is really happening, I will not have it within my authority, nor will I want to deny claims of witches and… and … warlocks …”

“Wizards,” Fudge interjected.

“And magic!” the Prime Minister stood from his chair to peer down at his former counterpart in governance. “Because my people come first. So if your war becomes our war, you best hear me plainly right now. I will throw the full weight of the United Kingdom, and her global allies, into defeating this Lord What’s-His-Name, with every non-magical force at our disposal. We’ve been dismissed as inferior,” he could tell from how Fudge’s jaw dropped that he as a muggle knew more than he let on, “And for that, we’ve paid the price. Our cities are in chaos, citizens are turning up dead, freak storms are tearing up our villages, an American woman has gone missing from Leadenhall, and …”

“What did you say?” Fudge stood. He still had a few sips left in his glass but it was set down. “About Leadenhall?” He knew what the Prime Minister truly meant.

“A woman, Renee Elizabeth Hayes. She went missing the same day as the bridge collapse and now I have not just your war to consider, but keeping the yankees out of our business as well.”

“A muggle, then?”

“I presume so, why?”

“No-nothing, I ought to be going.” Fudge spun around and inspected his chair. After some shifting about he remembered he hadn’t brought his hat for once, and so he scrummaged inside his jacket pocket for a handful of powder.

“What is it?” the Prime Minister pressed, rounding the corner of his desk.

Fudge, no longer the Minister, felt less tight-lipped than usual, and so with a slump of his shoulders, he looked sidelong at the other man, one who he did not envy these days. “She may be the first of many to come.”

The powder exploded in vibrant, emerald light, and before the Prime Minister could utter another word, the wizard was gone.


	8. Theism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am taking liberties with the _International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy_ and the catalysts for it coming to be.

For stretches of easily twelve hours at a time, Scabior left the woman unguarded in his flat; keeping her company was lowest on his growing list of concerns since taking her several days ago. In retrospect, he should have left well enough alone. Had he obliviated her right then, he wouldn’t have uncovered what was slowly brewing into a masterful plan – but then again, he would have been as well off with his employment with the Dark Lord, and ignorance might have been preferred.

In between reconnaissance of the entry points of the Ministry – they had moles stationed at every level of government, but even they couldn’t be absolutely trusted – and smuggle runs of illegal herbs, Scabior had plenty to keep himself occupied, but eventually he’d have to go back and confront the muggle.

_Find out how she broke through the veil, give her to the Dark Lord, collect your reward, sail off into the sunset debt free._

Because it wasn’t just a lapse in their world’s defenses. Every witch and wizard was told as a child the story of how their world was so well guarded from ever being discovered by the non-magical population. Even he, a wizard who had fallen off the path of pureblood peerage in pursuit of peccant practices, had a doting mother who regaled him when he wasn’t more than seven years old with the nighttime story of the oldest magic in the world.

_“Long ago, in the time of Myrrdin, we and the mugglefolk lived together in harmony. We were thought of as healers, and in times of need prayed to for appeasement of rain or drought, famine or disease. It is believed that we even bred with them, for they were seen as the stewards of the earth, and we the keepers of the sky._

_Among them there lived the King of Britons, a noble man who courted a plain, Christian maiden of peasant birth. The king’s sister, Morgen of the Fae, knew their union would cause ruin and despair, for she foresaw her brother’s bride to be deceptive and libertine, and would not only break her brother’s heart, but would bring about the end of his reign._

_Years passed and as it was prophecied, turmoil befell the land. Converted to the monotheistic faith of their new queen, men and women of the kingdom no longer prayed to the Faefolk, and soon our conjurings were seen as the harbingers of evil. On the eve of war, Morgen pleaded with her brother to see reason, but it was too late. He had been enchanted by other magic, the kind that torments a man’s soul. He was in love._

_Knowing that a war would end in death on both sides, his met by spell, hers met with iron, Morgen crafted a spell that would protect the magicfolk from the war to ensue – a ward of such immeasurable might that it could never be broken. But in casting it, she also knew she’d never see her brother again._

_And so it was through her sacrifice that the great divide of our worlds began. As the sun rose across the battlefield, the Fae disappeared from sight and from memory. We would remain in the magical world, and they in their muggle kingdom, forgetting of our existence forevermore. To this day, the mist of Avalon, the veil in which Morgen shrouded us in permanent secrecy, is the most powerful magic ever known. Through love it was cast, and there is nothing stronger.”_

“Rubbish,” he kicked off from the hallway wall; he had been delaying his return, and so found himself in the poorly lit passage of the fourth floor corridor outside his flat for who knows how long. He jerked open the door, irritated by the fairytale grousing his brain, and slammed it shut behind him.

“Jesus Christ!”

\-----------------

Twelve hours at a time was a long stretch of nothing to do, not that she had much else waiting for her when he came back. Their exchanges were limited to “here’s food,” and “no, you can’t leave yet.” He had no interest in getting to know her nor she him. He never stayed longer than half an hour, so she assumed he slept elsewhere.

This unspoken agreement of space afforded her liberties with his flat after the initial anxiety of captivity wore off. This her third day, it was finally time to concede that she was as filthy as his abode. Long, limp strands of her curly hair lay lifeless upon her shoulders, and having worn the same clothes, she was partially worried her smell was what was keeping him from longer stays.

“Not that I care,” she asserted to herself as she tore off her draped, light-weight jacket and threw it, her camisole, and her jeans onto the bed. She hurried into the small bathroom next to the kitchen, now accustomed to his popping in whenever he pleased, and quickly shut the door. She continued undressing, her black bra and panties being flung atop the toilet tank, then reached for and turned the faucet to release the flow of slowly warming water. She was grateful that some things were the same, no matter what world one lived in. As soon as the water was suitably hot, she climbed in, not even that disgusted by the decades’ old grime permanently stained on the porcelain bottom.

The water pressure was surprisingly divine – not even her hotel had it this good. She looked around for soap, and seeing none, peeked around the browning curtain for anything she might have missed. The pedestal sink was bare, and there was no mirror or medicine cabinet. “That explains why he looks dirty as fuck,” she sighed.

Hot water would have to do. She scrubbed as best she could with her nails and palms, getting to everywhere she could, as well as a decent tussle of her hair at the scalp. Had there been a mirror, it would have been quite fogged by the time she turned off the water and stepped out – to realize there was just a sad navy square of fabric, hardly earning the designation of wash cloth, hanging on the rung where toilet paper ought to have been.

Dripping all over the tile, Renee snatched the cloth and dabbed it all over, patting dry her arms, legs, between her thighs, and breasts. She glanced at her discarded bra and panties and frowned. The last thing she wanted to do after getting sufficiently clean was throw on dirty underwear. Flicking the faucet at the sink, she tossed in both pieces and started to pull, brush, and soak her delicates the olf-fashioned way.

“I could use some magic right about now,” she shook her head, but couldn’t deny the irony that made her smile. Less than a week ago she knew nothing of its existence except for in fables and film, and now she was sad not to have it at her disposal. She imagined life for this man was a lot easier – there had to be spells for doing laundry, cooking, maybe even bathing. “Guess he doesn’t know any of them. I was abducted by the shittiest wizard.”

Once rung out of excess water, she flung the articles of clothing across the top of the shower rod to dry. Reclaiming the wash cloth, she redoubled her efforts on towel-drying her hair, starting at the ends and squeezing out the moisture.

Absently thinking, she opened the bathroom door – maybe she could use one of his t-shirts to dry off the rest of the way – just as the front door slammed shut. On instinct, the wash cloth went straight for the apex of her thighs, and her forearm flung across her breasts.

“Jesus Christ!”

Scabior, only a few seconds free of his deep thoughts, chuckled and shook his head. “Exactly, he’s to blame for all this.”

And by all this, he gestured to her naked form, though in truth he meant the dilemma they both found themselves in. Afterall, it was a Christian maiden’s betrayal that lay cause to there being two worlds in the first place.

Which, now that he thought about it, was more troublesome than he cared to admit. _If not for the mist, there’d be no purebloods or muggles. By now, we’d be …_

Scabior was not the sort to worry over worldwide implications. Right now, he’d rather focus on the fact that she was still standing there, naked and wet, and at no point was he revolted by any of this.

She backed away, thoroughly aware that turning around would reveal her backside to him. Embarrassment reigned above fear. Aside from being held against her will, he had given her no reason to fear him. Harm was restricted to the crappy food he dropped off once a day.

“Mind …?” she didn’t know – mind closing your eyes, looking away, leaving?

“Oh, right.” He unearthed his wand and flicked. The wash cloth still nervously held against her groin fluttered in size, expanding in her hand until it was a bathsheet, the terricloth texture soft between her fingers. Had this been day-one, she would have gasped in shock, but like a true magical veteran, she just smiled in elation and lifted the towel around her, carefully wrapping in such a way that no prying eyes had a chance.

“I figured, seeing as there is no end in sight between us,” she began just as the towel end came tucked beneath her arm, “that one of us should clean up.”

At this he huffed, and with a muttered _Scourgify_ , whatever layer of mud, grit, and grunge had settled into his hair, pores, and clothes was immaculately eradicated, revealing to her a still life-worn man, but admittedly, staggeringly improved.

“Better?”

“Seriously, man,” Renee headed for the bed where she left her jeans, camisole, and jacket – she collected them in both hands and shook them in front of her. “You have the power to decimate, you can disappear in the blink of an eye, you can do whatever you want, and you couldn’t clean my clothes?”

“Scourgify,” he seemed bored in its utterance, but the fact that she was visibly in awe – her smile originating from the simplest magic – had him actually wondering why he didn’t find it as equally amazing. Most wizardry was as prosaic to him as the marvels of toothpaste were to muggles. _No wonder we think them inferior._

It was a sobering thought, another one of many now infiltrating his assumptions about muggles. It was annoying.

“There will be an end, love,” he grabbed at the back of his sole kitchen chair and pulled it around so that he could settle and lean forward against its back, a keen eye maintained on her as she folded the clothes neatly.

“But let’s get back to the beginning, shall we?”

“I told you, I don’t know how I ended up in that damn pub,” she exhaled, the rise and fall of her chest was all of a sudden a noticeable point of interest for him now that the crest peeked through the towel, no longer concealed by clothes.

“I meant your name. I never got it.”

“Ah, my name,” she stalled; she had hours of contemplation to prepare for this moment, and yet still she was unsure of whether a lie or her continued honesty would best serve her, or better yet, impede him. She was no better off knowing what his plan was – all she knew was he wanted to figure out how she was even here.

The awkward silence had lasted too long, he was certain to grow suspect, so without actually making up her mind, she blurted, “Rachel.”

Rachel was the most popular character on the most popular television series. Renee wanted to murder herself. But the look of satisfaction on his face quelled her panic. She lowered onto the bed next to her folded pile of freshly clean clothes.

“A pleasure, Rachel. Now get dressed, it’s time to go,” he hopped off the chair.

“Go? What do you mean go?”

“It’s time for some answers, and as neither one of us knows shite, we need to ask someone else.”

Renee hesitantly rose, holding the bath towel in place against her front with crossed arms. “Who?”

Scabior angled about the chair in his approach, not ceasing until he was directly before her. He knew it made her nervous, and with him for all intents and purposes unsoiled, he could tell his unmasked scent was a bit distracting. She nearly fell back, but managed to steady herself with one hand reaching for the mattress behind her, the other demurely clutching at the towel.

He smiled at that.

“My mum.”


	9. Casteism

Not far from Diagon Alley, about two and half miles in fact, stood the former Imperial Chemical Industries building – as of a few years ago, it was now headquarters to the United Kingdom’s Security Service, or MI5. An impressive neoclassical structure, Thames House as it was called served as the seat of counter-terrorism and espionage within the country.

The Prime Minister had become a frequent visitor – he considered this an unfortunate outcome of a catastrophic term of service – so once again, he left Downing Street, bypassed Parliament, and went straight to the hub of their intelligence agency. He, along with his new secretary, Kingsley Shacklebolt.

It was there, on the flat rooftop, that they were greeted with the high, whirling winds of rotating blades as the helicopter touched down on the helipad, guided in by one of the staff in a reflective, red vest.

“You should know,” the Prime Minister shouted to Shacklebolt at his side, the loud thrum of the helicopter’s rotors and gusts making it difficult to hear, let alone stand as the aircraft made its landing. “I don’t care for this man.”

Shacklebolt grinned but said nothing. Three men emerged from the helicopter just as the blades began to slow, but still each in their suits made sure to hold onto the button securing their jacket closed. The Prime Minister and who was now his magical advisor approached to meet them half-way, extending their hands in formal salutation.

“Gentlemen, I see your flight from Heathrow was quick, I imagine you’d like to get down to business,” he said to them all, but it was the man shaking his hand that had his attention.

“Thank you, Prime Minister. I realize this is a matter for my State department to handle, but …”

“No need to explain, Senator Hayes. I understand this is personal. You were right to have the President call me, and I assure you we are doing everything we can to locate your daughter and return her safely.”

The American he addressed looked weary but relieved. In his early sixties, Richard Hayes had the lines and grey hair expected of him, but there was strength in his build, never lost from his school days, which made him a formidable presence even amidst those half his age. He was by many in his party considered to be their candidate for the next presidential election.

The gravitas in his voice indicated he knew it. “Good. Then you understand I have with me additional assurance. Mr. Petnum here is one of our finest,” he indicated to his right a man in his mid-thirties with an expression and stance irrefutably martial. “And Mr. Quann,” he then gestured to his left, the Asian-American man tipping his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement. “He’s here for … special reasons, or so I am told.”

The Prime Minister smiled to them both, but before he could introduce Kingsley, Shacklebolt cleared his throat, “We should move inside, it’s about to rain.”

The men headed down the stairs leading from the roof just as a deluge dropped upon the city. “Good call, Kingsley,” the Prime Minister remarked as they stepped out into the hall lined in offices. “We will be …”

“Mr. Quann and I will meet you after you debrief the Senator,” Shacklebolt finished, and with a slow eye crooked to the American agent, the Prime Minister conceded and turned to lead the other two to the large conference room at the end of the corridor.

Once alone, they headed in the opposite direction, Shacklebolt’s hidden wand casting a silencing spell around them so as to prevent being overhead. “The senator’s daughter found the barrier.”

“What? I didn’t think that was possible. No no-maj has ever entered our world unaccompanied. Are you sure that’s what happened?”

“Witnesses corroborated at the scene. Shortly before the Deatheaters blew open the door to our concealed entrypoint, she entered on her own. Tom, the barman at the Cauldron, said she was looking for the lavatory. In the madness, another wizard confirmed he saw her being taken into Diagon Alley.”

“Taken? Someone took her?”

“Not yet identified, but someone in league with the Dark Lord’s followers. He was seen conversing with them moments before they abducted the wandmaker.”

“Then should we assume He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is aware of her?”

“Uncertain. If He was aware, all manner of devastation would be overtaking Britain, and it wouldn’t be stopping there.”

Mr. Quann nodded solemnly. They had reached the end of the hall. Kingsley reached for the door, and with two quick twists of the brass knob and a tap of his wand, it opened to the great hall of the Ministry of Magic.

“Once He learns that the mist is falling …”

Kingsley gestured for Mr. Quann to step inside the grand atrium, only to interrupt, “then nothing will stop Him from making our war … a world war.”

\---------------

“What are you wearing? Is this how muggles dress?” he eyed her as they walked side by side up a set of outside steps, framed in manicured shrubbery and ivory flowers. The terraced house stood amongst a row of near mirror homes, each beautifully maintained and overlooking Holland Park in Kensington. Renee just stared at him, and then motioned to his sullied leather coat, beaten boots, and anachronistic buttoned waistcoat. She then settled on his plaid trousers.

“You’re kidding me, right? And why do you care?” She noticed he hadn’t knocked on the door yet. With clouds looming overhead, there was no earthly reason he was stalling, unless …

“Haven’t seen your mom in a while, have you?” That earned the expected response, and so while she smirked, he sneered, and then curtly rapped on the door.

A few moments later the door opened. She was several seconds delayed in looking down, but he was already glaring at the butlering house elf. “Master Scabior, I … the Lady Scabior is not expecting you.”

“I know that, Drazz. Should make for a fun reunion, no?” he shoved passed the short-statured creature. Renee's jaw felt numb, but her shock was fleeting, as was the norm these days, and she abided once beckoned inward from where he stood in the warmly lit foyer.

“Rachel, wait here,” he moved, but her hand fell swiftly to his forearm to still him. It was his turn to appear surprised. “I’ll be right back,” he could tell that declaration wasn’t assuaging her fear of being left alone in yet another foreign, magical place.

He leaned down and toward her, eliminating the space their two heights upheld. “I promise, love.”

She let go, though by how slowly her hand relinquished its grasp he sensed it was with reluctance. That was new.

Also new was the fact that he forgot for a moment that she was a muggle, and that by bringing her here she was inherently in danger. Scabior didn’t come from a family of vehement Voldemort sympathizers, but neither were they a line of blood traitors by any definition. They had their pureblood prejudices, as shown in his own challenged beliefs about the woman standing beside him.

As Scabior disappeared into another room, the one called Drazz having already blinked away with a snap, Renee looked about the lovely home. It was not what she expected. Sure, there were moving portraits that at first notice made her heart leap into her throat, and nevermind the odd howl coming from somewhere in an upstairs bedroom, but that wasn’t what took her breath away.

This man – this scoundrel who was more at ease on the streets – came from an inviting, seemingly patrician home of privilege, status, and stability. “And I’ve been eating toast for three days.”

The staircase was the crowning achievement of the first floor. It greeted visitors at the end of the foyer and wound its four flights in wooden craftsmanship and grandeur, with a glass ceiling at the top to welcome her gaze in diminishing sunlight. The clouds from before were moving northward, and seconds later she heard the violent beat of thick rain drops on glass and rooftop.

As well as the violent outburst of shouts from the other room. Just as soon as she took a step in that direction, Scabior skidded across the hardwood floor, his wand raised and a look of mild irritation on his face.

“Now mum, I think,” smash went the vase of tea roses behind him, a disarming spell he dodged, only to arrive face to face with a wide-eyed Renee. “I really think you should give her a chance!”

Another air-piercing burst shot through the doorway, this time catching him on his shoulder. His free hand clenched his arm in pain, and she hurried to steady him with a press of palm to his chest and side.

“I will do no such thing!” Emerging from the parlour, a woman in dark crimson robes trained her wand upon him. Lady Scabior was much more in line with what Renee expected of the occupant of this house: dignified (except for injuring her son), well-dressed, and lovely with her deep chestnut tresses, a sliver of grey at its center, pinned high and neatly upon her head. She reminded Renee of Cinderella’s step-mother.

“You expect me, after a decade of your indiscretions and crime, to welcome in my home another one of your---oh.”

Her wand lowered and she looked perplexed, first at Scabior, then at Renee. “I wasn’t … I didn’t expect _this_.”

He had his back to her, preferring Renee's gentle clench over tempting another hex thrown at him. He shifted just enough to look over his shoulder to the older woman, “Mum, this is Rachel, and yes, she’s a muggle.”

“Drazz,” Lady Scabior called and the house elf appeared. Renee couldn’t keep her eyes from darting from his mother, back to Scabior, and now to the mythological being.

“Tea.”


	10. Exclusionism

“Please, sit.” Lady Scabior gestured to the luxurious, tufted chaise by the window while she lowered ever so lightly onto her own winged-back chair. Renee was in awe of her otherworldly elegance – she moved like a feather in the air, but she was certain this stately matron could snap like a viper.

Scabior was silently fuming, and Renee didn’t blame him – being hexed by one’s own mother? She couldn’t know the extent of what she cast at him, but as she held onto Scabior as they walked, one arm wrapped around his back, she tucked beneath his injured side to shoulder his weight with her right palm gently steadying by his chest, she guessed it was the equivalent of a bitch slap.

Once in the other room, he separated from her, and winced in doing so. Renee waited for him to take a seat, but he stood there still holding his sore shoulder by the cream-upholstered furniture ( _was he concerned he’d muddy it up?_ ), and after several tense moments of stillness, she realized he too was waiting – for her. He cleared his throat, which prompted her to quickly shuffle and sit down.

“You will have to excuse me, my dear, but I haven’t seen my son in nearly a decade, and truth be told, I wasn’t ever thinking he’d return. For obvious reasons,” to which she cocked a thin eyebrow in his direction, appraising him with pent-up disdain that only a mother of unconditional love could express. Renee was finding it increasingly difficult not to smirk as out of the corner of her eye she could see Scabior scowling.

“No, ma’am, I actually don’t know much about your son,” she confessed – aside from a name, undefined but dubious sources of income, and a shithole for a residence, she knew nothing.

“Yes well,” she sighed and eased backward, as if she sensed – POP – Drazz’s arrival with the tea. She was already reaching for her porcelain saucer and cup, intricate peach and pale leaf colors painted upon the china. “You are better off. My son is nothing but a criminal of the lowest sort. You know I once caught him pilfering my great grandmother’s pearls, and of all things, at a Society party I find them on the neck of a huss---”

“Thank you, mum,” he quickly completed. He took his tea, then watched to make sure Drazz didn’t _unintentionally_ forget to serve their guest. When Renee accepted the tea, going so far as to quietly offer a thank you to the elven servant, he shook his head. “Glad to see some things have changed, aye?”

“Don’t regress, Conall. I loathe it when you speak like that,” the older woman said as she raised her teacup to her pursed lips.

“Don’t change the subject,” he inched closer to the edge of the chaise. “Why are you acting civilized? If’n I was eighteen, you’d be spittin’ acid at the poor girl,” he turned briefly to Renee who, he noted, had been conspicuously quiet for being a foul-mouthed American. He wasn’t sure what overcame him, but instead of giving this stranger a chance to speak up, he charged on.

“And here I tell you she is a muggle, and you’re ready to have her o’er for a garden party with your friends!”

“Quiet down!” Lady Scabior demanded. “You and I may be reasonable, but I tell you the Bulstrodes next door are not.”

Scabior couldn’t help himself – he set his tea down on the small table by his side. He needed to point at her to, well, make a point.

“Weren’t you the one to tell me that muggles are, and I quote, grimy vermin the likes of house elf dung on your shoes? No offense, Drazz.”

From where he stood in the doorway, Drazz bristled with a squeak.

“You forget, Conall, I said that in front of the Malfoys, and all manner of high society families, at one of their council dinners.”

Scabior straightened a second, but then in true fashion to his own comfort, placed his forearms upon spread knees. “You’re pullin’ me. So, what then, muggles … Rachel here … she’s not elf shit?”

Renee was about to intervene – they had greatly digressed – when Lady Scabior furrowed her brows. “Who is Rachel?”

“I told you, mum, this is---.”

“No, dear, her name is Renee.”

“…what.”

“Renee. Is that not right, Miss Hayes? I saw you in the Daily Prophet this morning. I thought … I thought that’s why you are here.”

Scabior shifted to look at Renee, an accusing scrunch of his nose delivered – then pivoted on the cushion to address his mother with an agitated rise in his voice: “No, we came here to ask you something.”

“Oh, do spit it out then, Conall. Drazz, bring me this morning’s paper.” The elf disappeared, and then reappeared with the folded parchment presented to his mistress.

“See? It says you have gone missing, and that the muggle Prime Minister has been notified. It’s quite the gossip, though I couldn’t tell you why we’d care. I just assumed you came here to ask for my blessing.”

In unison, Scabior and Renee leaned forward, “Come again?”

“Well with your father gone, and the way you two were in the hall just now. No?”

“Are you mad, woman?” He didn’t let her answer. “We’re here because Rach—I mean Renee came through the mist on her own! That’s why she’s in the paper. That’s why we’re here!”

He launched off the chaise to snatch the newspaper out of his mother’s hand. She huffed in indignation but went ignored, by both of them. Renee wasn’t long in joining his side, scouring the headlines for what was printed: _Muggle Missing: Return to Ministry._

“For fuck’s sake,” Scabior groaned. There, boldly looking at them, was a moving photograph of Renee. He kept reading to see his name near the top. He grumbled the words, _“Miss Renee Hayes was last seen with the wizard Conall Scabior in Knockturn Alley.”_ At least they hadn’t been spotted since.

_Bellatrix is going to have my dick for this._

Renee turned back to look at the Lady Scabior – she had her hand around the charcoal-pigmented scarf about her neck, undoing it in apparent distress and stymied wheezing.

“Are you all right?” Renee stepped closer, catching Scabior’s attention to angle and look as well.

“Mum?”

“The article,” she breathed, “it didn’t say anything about the mist.”

Scabior let down the newspaper onto the table where he left his tea, then returned to his mother’s side. “That’s because they don’t want people to know ... but someone already does, and they put this out to start a manhunt to bring her in.”

“Who, who knows?” she was regaining her composure, finding comfort in her momentarily abandoned tea.

“Selwyn.”

Renee's hand flew to her mouth, but then slowly as the revelation wore on, her fingers fell. “The man in the alley?”

“He must’ve let on to Yaxley, that ponytailed cunt in the law enforcement offices. Has his eyes and ears on every investigation, and the muggle prime twat what’s his face led ‘em straight to her.”

There was a clearing of throats. Both Lady Scabior and Renee, once Scabior looked at them confusedly, nodded to him with subdued grins that they just as quickly hid.

He sneered, making to grab for the thin shred of cloth that bound his unkempt nest of dark strands in a ragged tail. But then he winced again, the concentrated pain from earlier setting his teeth on edge.

“So then, you’re here to hide?” There was nothing apologetic about the Lady Scabior, so when she watched her only son fuss in discomfort, she did as any woman of her status would do. She changed the subject again.

“That wasn’t the objective, no, seeing as we just found out – keep up, woman! No, I needed to ask you about the mist. That story you used to tell me … we need to know if …”

“If it’s true? Why of course it’s true.”

This was the first Renee was hearing of a story, and this mist. By now the rain had stopped outside, leaving a midsummer humid haze to linger upon the streets. The sun had begun to set, and the three of them in the parlour were suddenly very aware of the light dying out in the room.

“Then how could she walk through the mist? I thought you said it could never be broken.”

“That’s because I didn’t tell you everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will take pause here with this story. I have another in mind that I want to get started. I would really love to know how this one is progressing. Thanks!


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